floating

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my fingers are still sailing
the soft bends of your hair
and my eyes are still warm from
the sweet heat of your stare
I’m still sinking in the space
there- just beneath your nose
you’re still weakening my knees
you’re still tangling my toes
I’m still seeing us in stripes
and mirrored sideways smiles
I’m still looking through the stars
I’m still counting all the miles
my breath is still caught
tucked behind your left ear
I can still her an echo:
your voice calling me “dear”

the fishbowl

 

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“it’s not as easy as it seems,”
she said to no one who could hear,
“life inside a fishbowl,
it’s just one never ending sphere.”

“sun glares through the crooked glass
in a most unnatural way,
like the reflection in a mirror’s cracks,
or some dry, mishandled clay.”

“the light distorts and bows itself
invisible pinball,
once it drops, there’s no escape,
through mouth or thick round wall.”

“so I rearrange the furniture
and blow bubbles through my straw,
to pass the time, I play and rhyme,
guess that’s what living’s for.”

“no use in sweating small things,”
wait- can a fish even sweat?
“no good is born from worried ones,
there’s no benefit in the fret.”

she swam down deep then floated back
circling round and back around,
finding space in stagnant water
and silence in the sound.

red stamps

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she left her trademark
wet tannin-red kiss
like a map through the park
citrus wedge lower lip

her kisses a maze
on mugs, cups, and cheeks
puzzle-piecing the days
into ruby-stained weeks

story of summer
she imprinted the town
each kiss like thunder
hot, humbling sound

her breadcrumb trail lay
no storm could hide it
holding out for the day
a kiss cartographer might find it

one who read kisses
just the way that she did
smudged on cold objects
arranged in a grid

a new line for her stamp
curved and warm and sweet
she could set up camp
make a home where lips meet.

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the silhouette inside

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she whispered many magic things
to the silhouette inside
dangers of the outside world
like love and lust and pride

she warned her of confusing things
what might happen when we die?
and the strangely ever humbling fact
that elephants can cry

she shared with her the nice things, too
butterflies that flutter by
birds and bees and heeled Hermes
winged creatures who can fly

one lucky golden afternoon
the sun brought her silhouette outside
so they promised honest reverie
seeing eye to outlined-eye.

armor amour

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beetle in the bell jar
will you ever be free?
climbing glass walls with glassy eyes
an invisible sight to see

tell me what life was like
before it trapped you here
I’ll sit and blink and think a while
here, please take my ear

why not my cheeks and nose, too?
they could serve you well
see the world through my face for a day
and I’ll put on your shell

it’s dark and hollow in this place
you must not let much light in
through your shiny armor or
under your upturned chin

from the inside now I see
all the beauty that you guard
dewy mornings in the early sun
children playing in the yard

muddy fingers tracing wings
afternoons spent foraging
a soft heat melting gooey air
on which the summer birds sing

I see why you hide now
keeping safe in your deep shell
all the memories you’re missing here
living in a frail glass bell.

nostalgia

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Funny, isn’t it? How a place can hold so much meaning in our minds? A smell can make us cry, a crack in the sidewalk can take us back in time. A certain rock shaped like a chair, or a ferris wheel that spins too fast. All brush strokes in this dizzying abstract we paint over the course of our lives.

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Sometimes an entire town can wrap itself around us, weaving in and out of our pasts with a whole myriad of “times.” Good ones, bad ones, insignificant tiffs, overwhelming laughs. The little spot on the rocks where you told someone a big secret, the rocking chair where you said your first goodbye. Even as you watch the waves approach and retreat, though you know they are disappearing, it’s tempting to hang on to their imaginary immortality. Nostalgia likes to perceive perpetuality, even in the bold face of nature, as you stand in awe of her constant change.

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It’s an indulgent pursuit, to seek sources of nostalgia. Despite this awareness of our intentions, nostalgia’s captivating ruse can pull us in. The remarkable ability to find familiarity in something actually quite foreign; to chase a time long past. The human mind plays all kinds of pretty tricks, if you are willing to let go and let her.

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saltwater nymph

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circe can’t go home
oceanid with holographic hair
her formation is terrestrial
every cell hails de la mer

saltwater nymph
imprisoned in her own shell
destined to sway the unwilling
to hold them in her hell

historically avoided
her plea silent like the sea
to be requited is to be understood;
to be understood is to be free

tormented temptress
neither goddess nor goodness, she waits
for the creature who will create her
the only one who holds two fates

circe can’t stay home
her liquid lips must rise
to meet her lightning lover
in the heavy-handed skies

-rainy days in providence inspiring greek mythology poems